


you are expendable, a burden

by netherfriends



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drowning, Gen, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tired Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot Angst, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot is Not Okay, author is not okay, hatred for ones self, i'm just projecting so much, just plain old venting, or at least thoughts about it, this isn't cryptic or some shit, vent fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28521252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/netherfriends/pseuds/netherfriends
Summary: dying in my own arms, cradling my broken bodywho am i, who was i, who will i ever beORauthor is not okay and neither is wilbur soot
Comments: 35
Kudos: 133





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi this is in no way implying anything i'm just so frickin sad and tired right now so i'm venting onto a youtuber ha ha fuck please don't hate me for a work of fiction
> 
> i have no idea if there will be another chapter idk i swear i'm not high or drunk just sad and touch starved ugh please do not actually act like wilbur soot in this fanfiction, if you ever feel like this please get some help i am not pushing it that it is okay to deal with things like this, and to not do anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit for some of the lines in here from dandelion hands 'how to never stop being sad'

wilbur doesn't like the ocean, doesn't like how it crashes against him, pulling him. so damn loud. he doesn't like how it feels like he's one step away from falling off the edge, dying.

as a kid, he liked the water.

wilbur thinks he likes it now, but for a different reason.

the waves roll at his feet, reminding him _we're here for you, anytime._

anytime he wants to, the ocean is there to remind him of how easily they can drown him, push him beneath the surface, have salt water clog his lungs as he chokes on it. every time, it's always _thank you_ but the action is never done. wilbur always slips away, leaving death behind him. always waiting with open arms.

 _it's time, we're here_ the ocean sings to him, and it's pleasant. like wilbur would imagine people who listen to his music think when hearing his voice.

_saline solution, to all your problems_

how ironic.

wilbur hums, although his voice is raspy from lack of anything. food, water, talking. just taking care of himself. he feels weak, so so weak. his bones ache, pushing to throw him six feet underground. the call of gravity making his bones want to rip straight from his flesh cage.

he's swaying, swaying in the cold dark waters of his saline solution. he tips, over over over-

 _i'm sorry_ , wilbur whispers to the water as he walks away.

\---

_it's okay, i'm fine._

time has proven that fooling himself into believing a lie is the most effective way of dealing with things he has no control over.

because it's true, isn't it? that he has no control over himself, over his life. he's on the brink of losing, but wilbur finds he cannot care. he's lost so much that it's white noise to him at this point. 

he likes to listen to the mixtapes she had made him, likes to think too much about ever single word he hears. was this a sign that things were going wrong? no no, he was the one that cared too hard, not her.

he likes to listen to them, to have even more of a reminder that he was useless. to have even more of a reminder that she left because of him, because he talked too much about himself and his problems and yet had an odd belief that she was the one, that she was his world.

stupid, stupid, stupid.

he stays up every single night staring at his phone, trying to find an unknown courage in himself to turn these demons, these constant reminders of his loneliness into nothing more than a bad dream. his eyes are haunted, he surely looks like shit. tiredness weighs at him all the time, and he can't seem to want to ever get out of bed. if he could just talk to someone-

no no, he can't burden more people with the problems that he gave himself. he's the one at wrong, and now he deserves to suffer. he's drowning in himself, in how every part of his house reminds him that he's alone, no one around. he's left by himself, swept away by his own self hatred. thoughts of ending it, taking that saline solution, finally getting rid of the constant pain he was.

it was the coward's path, but wilbur had never been brave.

his lie is shit because he deserves it, because he did this to himself. everything he does is bad, real bad. he's useless and fucking horrid, and he'll probably die off like the wilbur soot in the dream smp.

hated, driven to death by his own insanity. ruining everything even more just by existing for a second longer. it's nearly impossible to cry now, with no matter how much he wipes the memories of tears and shitty nights forever stained on his cheeks.

people said he had a nice face, wilbur wonders if they would say that now with his sunken eyed gaze and sullen cheeks with too-pale skin. he looks like shit, and it reminds him of his early years. he thought he had gotten better, learned to cope. of course wilbur couldn't even do that.

he avoids the discord calls he gets from his friends for weeks even though they're the only sense of consistency he has left. he wants to vomit from ignoring them, but he has nothing to get out so instead he just dry heaves. he doesn't pick up a guitar for weeks, doesn't stream much anymore. he's watching himself falling farther away, taking a backseat to the word around him.

he doesn't fight it, doesn't fight the water threatening to explode his lungs.

wilbur feels too much nowadays, emotions washing over him like a dying man. and that's what he is, isn't it? a dying man.

he learns to drown every single one of his feelings in old stolen rum that he finds while wandering around at night in the streets, mind long gone. he learns to love the taste of it dripping down his throat, finds comfort in the warmth coming from his stomach.

he's drinking bottled love now.

he doesn't need other people to drive away his loneliness, he just needed to find a way to talk to it. and he talks to it, in cuts spread across his body, covering him until he becomes numb to the way they rip open, blood dripping down the cuts. 

_they'll scar_ , a voice that sounds suspiciously like phil's reminds him.

 _good_.

he laughs and laughs even though the sound of his voice makes him sick. he's so cold and yet overbearingly warm. the alcohol warms him inside, shushing him as it gently lets his body rot away. his insides feel like they're about to come out of his throat with every cough that rattles his pale body.

he's like a ghost now, he's already haunted himself.

he's staggering, shoes thrown haphazardly as he digs his toes into the sand, a bottle of liquor clutched in his other hand. he hates himself, he hates every part of himself. why is here? what does he gain by torturing himself but never actually going through with it.

wilbur laughs, but it comes out as more of a weak scream. he's so weak, drunk and depressed and suicidal. pathetic and weak and horrible. 

_i want to take a nap_ , and he really does, his body screaming at him constantly from lack of sleep. he probably shouldn't fall asleep on the beach, he could get mugged, or kidnapped, or other horrible things.

he brought the guitar, a last minute decision that he couldn't decipher in his drunken haze. he grabs it with shaky hands just as he falls onto the sand. he strums a little, it's out of tune.

it doesn't matter, because his shaky fingers can't form the right chords anyway.

exhaustion is pulling on him, and wilbur finally gives in and lets his body collapse.

he feels so warm.


	2. if this is how you folks make art it's fucking depressing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wilbur see's his blood. he wants to smear it everywhere, wants to make beautiful art with it that will over exaggerate his story into something dramatic, when really it's just a low budget shitshow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, this might be hurt/no comfort
> 
> credit for some lines in this chapter go to ajj, mainly their album 'people who can eat people are the luckiest'

wilbur see's his blood. he wants to smear it everywhere, wants to make beautiful art with it that will over exaggerate his story into something dramatic, when really it's just a low budget shitshow.

he might be possessed, with how much he practically worships death. wants it to take him in it's cruel hands and squeeze him till he pops. it's better than being hunted by demons in his sleep every time he tries to sleep.

(he doesn't sleep now, the dreams are vivid and they made wilbur want hurl. sometimes he does.)

and it's so fucking sad, because he has people who care about him, and yet he still goes and fucks himself over by doing this. he laughs, but the sound is muffled by the blood gurgling out of his mouth. disgusting, that's what he is. he's lying in a halo of shards of glass, pricking his skin and drawing blood. there are larger cuts, and they make wilbur feel both better and worse about the existence of his life.

wilbur doesn't know how to live anymore, knows that he isn't. but isn't living cruel? having to wake up everyday, knowing that death is so far away but yet so close, constantly teetering on the edge but an invisible hand pulling him back into the ever unfair arms of life.

props to himself, for achieving the one thing he wants. death. it's so fuzzy, the blood a good scent. he can't breathe right, or move, and he's so tired, it feels so pointless, to stop himself from dying when he did this to himself.

wilbur isn't a good person, and he can't stress this enough. especially when the glass is from the liquor bottle he'd chugged right before he passed out. he has no mercy for himself, the shit bag of a person he is. he would love to destroy himself, slay the beast. and everyone hates the beast, for he's a monster and abnormal.

_not good not good_

black dots crowd his vision, as sand seeps into his clothes. the sand bit was a good joke, but now wilbur wonders that if he just shoved all the sand down his throat then will he die?

wilbur has never been religious, but wilbur knows that he's not going to heaven. 

he see's his reflection in the water that laps at his feet, the reflection of a coward that he hates very much. the water is silent, no longer reassuring him. wilbur deserves it.

wilbur doesn't want this, doesn't want his immune system to leak, doesn't want the mirrors in his skull to be smashed. his heart is bloated and swollen, just like his soul. too big to fit in his body. 

he takes a large chug from the liquor bottle, draining it of the contents that hadn't been stained on the sand when he fell. it burns, god it burns so much, but it's warm and that's enough.

even as he throws it all up seconds later, some of it getting on his clothes, he's sickeningly warm. it's too much, too much for him.

he hopes his candle flickers and dies, so that his heart doesn't burn to the ground.

wilbur hacks, and hacks, until he really is trying to throw up his lungs.

_your city gave me asthma_

fucking hell, why is he like this? his fortitude found within forty ounce bottles. creating by lusting and lying to himself and to others. it's depressing, that's what it is.

he reacts, going into fight or flight mode. he always chooses flight, instead of actually fighting this fucking disease in his head. numbing his rational thoughts. his mind is looking to strangle him, squeeze his throat tighter and tighter.

so many ways to die, not enough time.

he gave birth to twin wire hangovers, judging by the pounding of his head that feels like his brain is getting smashed in. it hurts, his whole body aches actually. but what does it matter? not enough to save him from the hole he dug himself in.

the sand is smeared with a mixture of blood and vomit and alcohol. his own little play, little shit show directed and produced by yours truly. fucking pathetic. wilbur presses the heels of his hands hard enough against his eyes that he see's stars. they're made out of his own ashes.

wilbur is selfish, wanting more and more and keeps wanting. forever trapping away this pain, keeping it all locked away for himself and then making it happen more and more. hasn't he already had enough? no, no, not enough. he needs more.

he grabs the guitar, and sings a song of screaming and drunken laughs mixed with full out sobbing. in the end, wilbur wants to break the guitar. he doesn't.

he wants to feel alive, but he _can't_. his loneliness built the pyramids and the solitude is a knife. he's been stabbed, his blood is dried and mangled with his intestines. he rots, being fed on by rats, his decaying body nothing but food to them. good, at least he served a purpose in the end.

he tries to stand up, but pins and needles shoot through his body so he slumps back down on the ground again. the smell is overbearing, but it doesn't matter.

this won't last forever, but goddamn it feels like forever.

wilbur wants to go away for a while, because the things that he has seen has turned him into a shitty fucking human being. he has to get out of his skin, but he doesn't know where to begin because now he feels worthless.

he's afraid of the way he lives his life, he's afraid of the way he doesn't. 


	3. wasting away, wasting these days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit to some of the lines goes to crywank, mainly his album 'tomorrow is nearly yesterday and everyday is stupid'

wilbur fucking hates it here, in his room where he's constantly reminded of a more stable him. is that still him? is he really gone, drowned beneath bottles and bottles of liquor that keeps him warm but so, so cold inside. his room smells like shit, he's been in here too long, dwelling on all the lies he's taught himself. he doesn't deserve the things he relate to.

he's hopeless, counting the days since he's slept.

it's been a week, 7 _fucking_ days since he's cured the ache in his bones. does everyone else see how much he's spiraled downwards? he almost wants them to, but knows he's not worth gentle hands picking him back up again, slotting his pieces together until he looks perfect, when really he's just one chip away from falling apart. was it worthwhile? knowing he would sink this low?

he's brimming with shame because he's not a stallion, he's just perverse. hopeless and docile and _tamed_.

despite how overdramatic he makes it seem, it's just another day he won't remember, another day he wished away. tedious days punctuated by dismay, and god dammit because every day feels the same.

it's the routine and the regret, of constantly waking up feeling sick, sick of himself, head spinning and he passes out on the toilet seat, vomit still swirling in his stomach. he'll eventually return to the alcohol, to the burning warmth that travels down his throat. it'll be there until morning, and he'll be cold again.

it doesn't matter when he drinks, because even when he has that sickening burn he's still so damn cold inside. his intensities shift and pound, but he keeps drinking and drinking, trying to finally fade away the unbearing cold.

it never works, he's left a broken man with vomit on his face and blood in his dreams.

it doesn't take much to make him feel small, but he always feels small. the puddle is huge and red, and he's soaking in his own blood. but he's somewhere else, curled up and stashed away. where is he? who is he? who was he? is he even anyone anymore? he drinks until he can't remember who he was, who he is, who he wants to be.

his hands are cold as they swipe at his skin, tearing through all cuts. 

the blood trickles from everywhere, and it smells like iron and wilbur flinches away. 

this is probably why he's never home anymore. surrounded by memories, and things that can make him _break_. the outside world will scoff and kick him down, knowing he's worthless and therefore won't even try to fix him. it's a relief.

his thoughts are sickening, like poison, liquid rushing through him sluggishly. powering a corpse, a dead man that negates any good parts himself. he's cruel, selfish and greedy and hopeless. 

he could just give his mind away and all his thoughts away. he won't feel anything anymore, no more guilt or shame. he can drink himself into the open grave without thinking about all the people that love the shit bag of a person he is, he won't have to wonder about they who have to carry a burden of worry for him.

the universe doesn't care, but people do, and it eats away at him.

even now, the world he knows has ended. but who can say what will come in the world? it's stupid, his thoughts are stupid, but his mind is constantly running no matter how much he hits it.

wilbur hates that it hurts, because then it means that it meant something. nothing has meaning anymore to him, so it's a stupid reminder. his mind is haunted, but can it be unhaunted? the world is haunting him, despite how much he wants it to forget him. he means nothing, and the world knows this. 

it comes back though, just to pound it in his head how alone he is. and he's never felt more alone, even in a crowd of people.

he doesn't want to die alone, but he knows that's not possible.


	4. i keep trying to outline a better life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact, this is the only chapter so far that i've written while not bawling my eyes out and delirious out of my goddamn mind, so have some semi-sane thoughts, except i still feel like shit

wilbur's falling apart. he's like a broken mirror, you try to pick up his pieces to put him back together but then you get cut. and it's so _stupid_ , because he's wasting his life away, and yet he doesn't care. he should care, god he should care. he's fucked up, this is fucked up. the way he's feeling is fucked up.

and it's amazing how numb he is, to everything now. he regrets so much, but also he just can't fucking find any feeling left in him. he misses the "old" days, where he could just laugh without feeling like he's doing something **wrong**. he wants to stay the same, but he can't, he can't.

every time he blacks out and wakes up to the stench of alcohol, every time he wakes up somewhere unfamiliar, every time his hands start to shake when he looks at the ocean, or a bottle of pills, or a knife, he thinks about everyone he's failing. all the people who care about him he hasn't talked to, but god he can't do that now. he's falling, and falling, and they offered him a hand but he refused why did he _refuse_ -

if he kills himself, then he's going to miss it all. he's going to miss every moment in his friend's life. he's going to miss just talking with tommy in a voice call. he's going to miss laughing with techno. he's going to miss popping into phil's streams. he'll fucking miss everything, and god he _doesn't want to do that_.

but it _hurts_ , it hurts so much. sometimes, he can't fucking breath. sometimes it feels like his lungs are going to fucking explode. it's scary, but it's too underwhelming to be real.

and maybe it isn't, maybe wilbur is just stuck and he can't get out to the real world, too stuck in his little bubble. he's pushed away everyone, so no one's there to pop it.

empty bottles, empty souls. outside, he can hear drunks howling.

he doesn't howl, instead he sings.

if he could just put down the bottle, then maybe he could pretend that things were okay.

maybe, maybe, maybe. it's always maybe.

_where are you?_

**i don't know**

he needs help, but he's gone and wasted every chance he had of getting it. he's lived for too long, too long. why can't he just die?

the light from his phone screen hurts, but he doesn't care. the numbers blur together, but he can see that he's gotten a lot of notifications from people. absentmindedly, his thumb clicks on one.

"wil, god dammit you're scaring us all shitless. please talk to us, please talk to _me_." wilbur nearly cries in relief, it's been too long since he's heard the sound of someone else's voice. phil sounds worried though, and he should be more concerned about that. instead he just stares blankly at his phone until it shuts off automatically.

he rolls over, not really registering anything anymore. his phone is a cold weight in his hand, and he instinctively curls his hand tighter around it.

when he comes back into reality, the time on his phone says that two hours have passed. but that's not right, that couldn't be right.

"help."

no answer, he's alone. of course.

he's disappointed in himself, truly he is. for turning out like _this_. maybe it's not a depression, maybe that's just a fancy word he's using for feeling sad. but no, he's no idiot. he knows the signs, has experienced it before. he's not ignorant, just avoidant. that's part of why he can't heal, because he can't actually face the goddamned problem.

_it's me, i'm the problem._

the cars from outside honk their horns and drive past, and the people there have their own lives. it's then that he realizes how blissfully small he is in the world. somewhere else, a person is saying their last words in a hospital. somewhere else, someone else is dealing with the same problems as him. he doesn't know them, and they don't know him.

the world is huge, and he just plays a small part. so small in fact, it's almost like he doesn't exist.

he has a life, but so do other people. people go on with their lives, and they don't know about the state he's in, for they're too busy worrying about family members and bills and school. it's laughable really, how he can lay here moping and people will just, go on with their lives. he could stay here forever and the world would keep turning, and people would keep living and dying and loving and hurting. but it won't matter because it will all end eventually.

who ruined you, little music boy?

_me, i ruined me_


	5. i'm feeling safer than i know i should be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you ever just, like feel shitty and it's horrible and dreadful but then an hour or two later you're okay? like nothing's wrong, but this "mood" keeps repeating and repeating and it makes you feel horrible because you don't know how to stop it, don't know if you're capable of stopping it

he doesn't know where he is, but he is standing on a bridge with a guy's arm slung around his shoulder. everything is fuzzy, and there's a strong stench of alcohol everywhere. it's more comforting than it should be.

"ya know, there's like a lot of narcissism in self-hatred," the unknown guy slurred, a delirious smile on his face as he spoke.

"not like, the egotistical or cruel kind. i'm just saying that self-hatred blinds you from the world around you and prevents you from having a more ob-ob-objective and rational view of yourself. it like stops you from distancing yourself, see how your actions affect the people around you and how they themselves are feeling. it makes you overanalyze every single thing about you which furthers the self-hate.

it's a vicious cycle that dooms you to be far too conscious of every single thing you believe is "wrong" with you. it becomes an unhealthy obsession."

it was silent for a while, the only sound being the rushing cars from behind them. the stranger grabbed his bottle and downed the rest of the liquid in it.

wilbur couldn't stop thinking about those words, even as the guy passed out. the stars above were few, hard to see considering the pollution in the city. 

_oh, he's right_.

he can't just keep doing shitty things, and then feeling bad about himself like that makes it okay.

you need to be better, music boy.

wilbur wants to be better, and yet he doesn't try. all it takes is to force himself through it.

when he peers over the edge, he determines that a fall from this high up would kill him. people would gawk and point as his blood stains the lake red.

it's now at night, with the smell of alcohol in the air and a stranger asleep at his shoulder, that music boy starts to feel.


	6. what does it mean when you have to learn how to live all over again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> legit i had meant for this to be hurt/no comfort, but i decided that nah, i wasn't going to do that, because this is currently the only thing i have motivation for
> 
> anyway, do ya'll want the book to end with this chapter or do you want me to keep going? it's up to everyone reading this so.. please tell me

his fingers are shaking, his whole body is shaking actually. he doesn't- he's never tried to fight it before, and god it hurts. it hurts, because he knows that he can't win this fight alone, but his goddamn fingers just won't _push the stupid button_.

i don't wanna do it, i don't want to.

_shut up._

being at home hurts too much, so he's at a bus station. he finds that the city is much more calming to him. doesn't heal his scars, but instead gives him the cure for something he doesn't have.

 _do it, do it, do it, do it do it doitdoitdoit **doitdoitdoitdoitDOITDOIT**_ -

"SHUT UP!"

the city doesn't stall and wait for it's outburst. cars keep passing him without a glance in his direction, people continue to talk without noticing him. maybe he's not broken, but rather bent. because if you're broken you can always pretend that you're okay, stick yourself back together to create a replica of who you used to be but you know it won't be the same. but when you're bent it's obvious your problem, and that you can't fix it. no amount of pretending will ever fix him.

the contact under his phone is threatening, and he does and doesn't want to press it.

it's a step to being better, pressing phil's name would be pushing himself out of his self-hatred daze and acknowledging that yes, he has a problem, and that he's willing to try and pull himself back up.

but he's hurting himself, and other people by continuing to be like _this_. this sweaty, disgustingly hungover adult who hasn't been in his own home for days.

he doesn't want to be himself, it's making him someone else.

before he can decide against it, his thumb presses phil's contact. the ringing starts, and on the second one wilbur's eye widen and he goes to push the disconnect button because he can't _do this_ -

"hello? will?"

wilbur is shaking, and there's a lump in his throat, but he forces words out.

"h-hi."

there's a sigh of relief on the other end, which makes wilbur cringe in on himself. god, he did that. he caused that.

"will, will, god it's been months. what's going on? what can i do? talk to me, talk to me." a strange whine comes from the back of his throat, and his vision starts to blur. he slumps down on the bus station bench, eyes glazed over.

"phil, i need you."

it's quiet, and wilbur traces the lines on the map behind him.

"okay, okay, i'll be there. where are you?"

the next few moments pass in a blur, all he registers is phil telling him that he'll be there as soon as he can, and then there's a click. his hand still has the phone raised up to his ear, even though there will be no sound coming from it.

the earth keeps turning, and people keep going. he is someone, but so are other people. life's a bitch, and then you die, right?

he watches as a car pulls up, and phil rushes out to pull him into a death grip of a hug.

_life's a bitch, and then you keep living_

**Author's Note:**

> this is unedited fuck me


End file.
